Harleen Quinzell had a hunch that "Harley Quinn" must've held some deeper meaning for Jack Kadere. But when she asked, all he said was, "It's just easier to say."
She didn't buy that for a second. Still, when Jack shifted the topic and asked about the state of Gotham, she pushed down her curiosity, accepted the name change without complaint, and began to explain what had happened to her city.
In a word—chaos.
Bane had taken control of Gotham. He started by capturing Wayne Enterprises, using it as his base of operations. Not only had he gained access to cutting-edge technology, but he had also hijacked a prototype energy project—originally designed as a clean fusion reactor—and turned it into a makeshift nuclear bomb. The moment it detonated, Gotham would be wiped from the map.
Then he crippled the city's infrastructure. After flooding the sewer system—trapping most of the city's police force underground—he staged a brutal public execution by blowing up a football stadium mid-game. Dr. Leon Pavel, the only person who could disarm the bomb, was killed during the broadcast.
Bane destroyed every bridge connecting Gotham to the mainland, save one. The military, hesitant to risk civilian casualties, drew a line in the sand but failed to retake the city. Anyone who tried to leave—man, woman, or child—would trigger the bomb.
Now Gotham was isolated. Lawless. A ticking time bomb, quite literally.
Without law and order to keep things in check, Gotham's worst instincts were unleashed. Blackgate's criminals flooded the streets, and with weapons handed out like candy, chaos spread like wildfire. Riots. Looting. Arson. Executions. What began as a criminal uprising soon became mob rule. Civilians, seeing no hope, joined in. The first to suffer were the remaining police. Then it was the wealthy, the politicians, the so-called elites.
They were dragged to City Hall and put on trial in a macabre theater of vengeance.
The judge? None other than Jonathan Crane, aka the Scarecrow.
Once a brilliant professor of psychology and chemistry, Crane had dedicated his life to studying fear. Using his own engineered toxin, he could force people to hallucinate their worst nightmares. That obsession twisted him into the Scarecrow, one of Batman's most dangerous and psychologically manipulative enemies.
Jack smirked. "So it really is the plot of The Dark Knight Rises."
He stretched lazily and gave Harley a crooked grin. "I'm getting a little hungry."
"I'll cook something," Harley replied, getting up and heading toward the kitchen.
The front door, which Jack had kicked open earlier, still hung loosely from its hinges. Surprisingly, no one had come snooping around. Maybe it was the unremarkable appearance of the apartment—or maybe it was the dead body Jack had dragged outside and left near the stairs.
To be safe, he pushed the sofa up against the doorway and peeked out the window. The streets were still a battlefield. He let the curtain fall and turned to walk toward the kitchen, which glowed faintly in the dim light.
First Catwoman, then Harley. Both encounters had been... entertaining. Gotham might be a city of madness, but for someone like Jack Kadere, it was exactly his kind of playground.
Hopefully, he could stick around this time.
Because no matter how many worlds he landed in, he always found himself chasing new sensations. That restlessness wouldn't change—not even with the power to leap between realities.
Jack walked up behind Harley, who was stirring something over the stove, and rested his chin on her shoulder. His arms slid beneath hers and wrapped gently around her midsection.
Harley froze.
Slowly, his hands crept up to her chest area.
She could feel the warmth of his breath brushing her ear.
"You're really something," Jack murmured. "So young, and already got your own runway."
"Runway?" Harley blinked, confused.
Jack tilted his head slightly, his voice teasing. "Yeah. You know… the kind where planes land."
Harley followed his gaze downward. Her face turned red in an instant, and she stared at her chest like it had betrayed her.
Flat. Flat. Flat... the word echoed in her head like a drumbeat.
"You... you like big ones?" she asked hesitantly, trying to understand what kind of person she was dealing with.
To understand someone, you had to start with their preferences—at least, that's what she'd learned in psychology class.
"Depends," Jack replied without hesitation. "Round, teardrop-shaped, conical... papayas, peaches, pears—every kind has its charm."
Harley couldn't help but ask, "But if you had to pick one?"
Jack let her go, stretching his arms as he walked off. "Honestly? My favorite is always the next one."
Harley blinked again. Was he implying she'd eventually be replaced?
So he's the type who chases novelty... she thought.
But before she could spiral further, Jack turned back with a teasing grin. "Don't waste time overanalyzing me. If I'd lost interest in you, I wouldn't be standing here. Now hurry up."
Harley tilted her head, uncertain. "Hurry up with what?"
"Dinner," Jack said with a smirk, already heading back to the couch.
She let out a small breath and shook her head. Unpredictable, she thought. But for some reason, it didn't scare her. She turned back to the stove.
Growing up in a broken home, Harley had learned to take care of herself early. Cooking was one of the few ways she found calm.
They sat down to eat, and as they talked, she realized something strange—despite everything that had happened, despite the guns and tension and madness outside, there was a strange calm between them.
Like two people who had known each other longer than just a few hours.
And that was the most dangerous part of all.